And Atreus' sons beheld him marvelling As one re-risen from the dead: it seemed The work of hands immortal. And indeed So was it verily, as their hearts divined; For 'twas the glorious Trito-born that shed Stature and grace upon him. Suddenly He seemed as when of old mid Argive men He stood, before calamity struck him down. Then unto wealthy Agamemnon's tent Did all their mightiest men bring Poeas' son, And set him chief in honour at the feast, Extolling him. When all with meat and drink Were filled, spake Agamemnon lord of spears: "Dear friend, since by the will of Heaven our souls Were once perverted, that in sea-girt Lemnos We left thee, harbour not thine heart within Fierce wrath for this: by the blest Gods constrained We did it; and, I trow, the Immortals willed To bring much evil on us, bereft of thee, Who art of all men skilfullest to quell With shafts of death all foes that face thee in fight. For all the tangled paths of human life, By land and sea, are by the will of Fate Hid from our eyes, in many and devious tracks Are cleft apart, in wandering mazes lost. Along them men by Fortune's dooming drift Like unto leaves that drive before the wind. Oft on an evil path the good man's feet Stumble, the brave finds not a prosperous path; And none of earth-born men can shun the Fates, And of his own will none can choose his way. So then doth it behove the wise of heart Though on a troublous track the winds of fate Sweep him away to suffer and be strong. Since we were blinded then, and erred herein, With rich gifts will we make amends to thee Hereafter, when we take the stately towers Of Troy: but now receive thou handmaids seven, Fleet steeds two-score, victors in chariot-race, And tripods twelve, wherein thine heart may joy Through all thy days; and always in my tent Shall royal honour at the feast be thine." He spake, and gave the hero those fair gifts. Then answered Poeas' mighty-hearted son; "Friend, I forgive thee freely, and all beside Whoso against me haply hath trangressed. I know how good men's minds sometimes be warped: Nor meet it is that one be obdurate Ever, and nurse mean rancours: sternest wrath Must yield anon unto the melting mood. Now pass we to our rest; for better is sleep Than feasting late, for him who longs to fight." He spake, and rose, and came to his comrades' tent; Then swiftly for their war-fain king they dight The couch, while laughed their hearts for very joy. Gladly he laid him down to sleep till dawn.